


the trouble falling asleep

by daensas



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Worship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mini Fic, very short, very very self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:14:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23163103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daensas/pseuds/daensas
Summary: Tommy has some trouble falling one night.Though ultimately it is Grace that reaches for him — slender fingers curved perfectly to cradle his cheek, eyes aglow with the warmth of love and the pale nightgown she dons gives slight revelation to her rounded belly.“You need to sleep.”
Relationships: Grace Burgess/Tommy Shelby
Comments: 7
Kudos: 52





	the trouble falling asleep

“Tommy.” 

The gentle son of his name that plays upon her lips draws his attention into the present, a breath still heavy on his own lips, fingers curling nearly instinctively near the layers of pale golden tresses that splay about the dark coverings. He does not meet the gaze of concern that is clear on her features and rather he focuses upon how Grace’s rounded face is softly illuminated by the lamp sitting upon the nightstand, shadows curling about her face in a ghost of a caress. It is right in those moments that he realizes that sleep cannot reach him, because in all of these years Grace is within his grasp to touch, to gift all his affection to, and he is just so damned happy about it.

Though ultimately it is Grace that reaches for him — slender fingers curved perfectly to cradle his cheek, eyes aglow with the warmth of love and the pale nightgown she dons gives slight revelation to her rounded belly.

“You need to sleep.”

Her slender fingers touching his cheekbone are warm save for the brief coldness of the simple band she wears upon a finger that glints dully in the pale lamplight. It is the simplest of touches that brings him into these present moments — though it is little surprising, there would be a simple urge by Grace and he was under her charms without a moment’s hesitation. All he has ever wanted in these years was for Grace to be at his side in the blackness of the nights, undisturbed by the worries of the day. And yet, tonight he has found himself deeply intertwined with his thoughts — not that overthinking to the wee hours of the morning was uncommon. Though it was never a preference when there was his beloved to keep his company pleasant in these long nights.

But he overthought as he always did — that perceptiveness never departed from him, a constant to plague his mind even in these situations of luxurious comfort. Perhaps it was connected to the explosion of happiness upon the entrance of Grace into his life once more — blonde curls bouncing with every step and colorful skirts swinging about her ankles. The monotony of his depressive life, the ashes that weighed heavily in his mouth all had been parted by her entrance one more and the promise upon her heart never to take a bullet for him again — but with a heart as stubborn as hers, was it truly a promise?

And so yet again he was thinking in all of the exhilaration of his happiness of the moments in which she was not touched by him, those moments in their temporary periods of separation even if he absolutely knew she’d return to his side. And in the complex masses of his thinking, again he comes to that point that should be reiterated — he should be the one that is laying his affection upon her in these sweet moments.

Soon after their reunion, it quickly had been discovered that a favorite pastime with one another was the affectionate touches, hands and lips caressing their bodies in patterns of tattoos that seldom left them without an inch of their skin untouched. They’d made a point of it in each time they were together, her fingers skillful in their work of loosening the buttons of his shirt, his own hands resting in the warmth of her neck and their lips met in a desperation of keeping one another to themselves. As if fear flowed within their veins in the sudden loss of their beloved and it was only through these connections that they were together.

What had began as the most primitive emotion of desperation, of the singular want to be together soon had ascended into a dedication each night — kisses peppered along the lines of her beautiful skin with only the moon glow to guide his touches. Rediscovering all the different aspects of Grace that he had fallen in love with.  
And now he is doing it once more — as he gingerly brings the palm of Grace’s hand to his lips, pressing kisses against the base of it, never failing to lose sight of her eyes, now alit with with the blue fire of pleasure. And that habit of their staring. More often times than not he is drunk off the images of her visage, his eyes often failing to peel themselves away from her in the fear that it would be his last sight of her ever again. And perhaps that is a reason as to why he cannot sleep — his head is in the clouds of happiness and he will lose sight of her again.

He’s long realized that happiness his come with its long and drawn out costs and this time it is the fear of loss that underlies in the shadows when they are together. And so he is touching her, he is feeling her — she cannot be taken away if she is a permanent fixture.

“Tommy. Stop. That tickles.” A ogling Grace is far too powerful of an aphrodisiac for him to put up a single effort of resistance and so he continues — lips brushing over the carefully drawn lines of her palms to the veins that are alike rivers of lavender painting her skin. Criss crossing the depths of the pale purple were lines of silver scarring slashing into the skin, only a touch visible in the lamplight, though his gaze has lingered upon them a great many times. He knows that Grace is not fond of the observation of her scars — an indication of life without him, though the singular hint that gives way her displeasure is the sigh parting her lips and the roll of her eyes that is shadowed by the night.

“You know that I am not a doll. I do not break easily.” Even in slight annoyance he voice dripped sensually like smooth, melted caramel. She tilted her head, loose curls baring the side of her neck, though the expression of her face is soft with sympathy, eyes widened ever so slightly with understanding. “But I’d probably have the same reaction if I suddenly saw you all scarred like that.”

To this, Thomas blinks with little expression to hang on his face, there is a feeling quickly building in his chest, a threat to overflow into his throat, a fullness of tension as his fingers began to tremble her scarred skin. He could not name the emotion if he put noticeable effort — but it is tense and he’s nearly riddled with pain. There is a weight upon his shoulders that prevents him of thinking in these present moments — the memories of seeing the scars on her arms for the first time in their reunion. He’d been frigid with shock and it had been all his damn fault.

“I made a promise to protect you. To protect us. And I failed spectacularly at that.” His words were struggles with the heaviness remaining on his chest and a trembling exhale that furthered the vulnerability of his admission. Though it is far from a new realization, he’s even spoken the words over and over that they are ancient, like runes carved into the old stone of the land. With each passing repetition his soul is worn down as mountains are worn down by the cruel erosion of nature, and it was not the admission that he feels most, but rather that guilt that trails at the end every time.

Again, the failure to protect.

Thomas felt he could not breathe with the guilt inlaid within him like that and fear that the future would speak a similar fate, that their promises would be empty and an endless lifetime of bleakness without the golden rays of Grace in his life.

“Someday someone’s got to give you a good thrashing to end that kind of thinking.” Grace murmurs, no longer laying beneath Thomas, smooth fingers dipping into the delicate flesh of his neck, a gesture meant as a comfort but he felt a shudder nonetheless. He drew in a breath, far too trembling for his preference and breathed in the comforting scent of Grace — warm vanilla and a touch of lavender, ever subtle and delicate. The tension melted in his shoulders as Grace pressed against his body, warm against him as his temperature ran cold during the night. Another expression of concern is etched upon her face as Grace pressed shockingly warm fingertips to his cheeks, a great contrast to the cool wetness that now showered his face.

“I suppose we could wait on that thrashing. I just want you to stop blaming yourself.” Her words were airy and she wounded her arms around Thomas’s neck, head pressed against his chest. “You have so much more to worry about than the past, Mr. Thomas Shelby.” She was urging him towards that path that drew him away from the blame games that built his psyche — a strait laced urging not a plead that was a cry or beg. Grace did not plead.

Tenderly he grazed his thumb over Grace’s cheek, a bitter admission within himself that Grace was correct in her evaluation. These constant sickly thoughts were always a plague in his mind and though he tended to avoid voicing them aloud, she always saw through him easily into his complex, nearly always clouded mind. Perhaps he’d been foolish after all — a forcible compartmentalizing of his guilt, of his deepest fears in his mind in the way that they did not appear upon the surface but the simplest scratches of the layers would unravel his emotions. It would be uncharacteristic of him to simply detach himself from this baggage that he’s carried with him — he’s always had a problem of letting go of things. But he had the realization that he was utterly exhausted of this emotional turmoil unafraid to haunt him at each and every corner of his life.

Emotional turmoil that he wrought upon himself.

“Emotions are too damn complicated.” He murmured, his voice not quite cold and stiff nor did it tremble with heavy emotion either. He dipped his head down and kissed her hair and noticed that she was wordlessly staring at him, eyes already half lidded with the temptation of sleep. “And you are already sleeping without me.”

“Not sleeping.” Grace whispered though a yawn soon followed her quiet words. “Well. I won’t go to sleep until you give me a proper kiss.” Even in her half-sleepy state, she gazed upon him in a gentle awe and her soft gaze was bright with admiration and invitation to give her the affection that they both so craved. In a moment he felt as if he were a school age boy, a certain strange anticipation lodged in his throat even as his fingers cup her face, bringing her closer to him.

Again it is Grace to take the initiation, as she leaned into him to kiss him properly, eyes closed and he felt her lick the remnants of the nightcap that still lingered upon his lips. They have shared passionate kisses an innumerable amount of times — but every time he is taken in a new and bewitched, lips pressing together as if they would never find one another again. It was as if they were sharing their own little secret language, a quiet little talk that he wished never would end.

“I expect this every night from you, Mr. Shelby.” Grace smiled against his lips, her words soft caresses against his skin. 

“That is a task that I would gladly oblige.”


End file.
